


The Jig of Chains

by damalur



Series: The Unexamined Life [3]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Abominations, Beer, Crack, F/M, M/M, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-28
Updated: 2014-11-28
Packaged: 2018-02-27 06:50:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2683274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damalur/pseuds/damalur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It <i>is</i> good to see me, isn't it!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Jig of Chains

**Author's Note:**

> Copious crack, written purely for mine own amusement.
> 
> (Listen: all I'm saying is that when you carry the premise of silly!Hawke through to the most extreme possible conclusion, the story you're going to get will make very little sense.)
> 
> (Listen: I am so very sorry.)

He was rather confused when the shouting started. He could hear the commotion quite clearly from his tower office, and when he reached the ramparts he saw the pair of them standing in front of Skyhold's gate. The man was slouched over and had a visible scowl on his face. The woman was wearing a hat elaborate enough to rival the Inquisitor's, with a broad brim that shadowed her face, which was why Cullen didn't immediately recognize her; but then she tilted back her head and shouted again.

"HELLOOOOOOOO THE KEEP!" She had an incredible shout, the sort of shout that had been honed keeping control over three dozen scalawags in the midst of a storm.

"What," Cullen called down, "in Andraste's name, are the two of you doing here?" As soon as he asked the question, he realized he already knew the answer; it was remarkably obvious.

"Cullen?" Isabela said. "Cullen, is that you? Look, Fenris, it's Cullen! Fancy seeing him here!"

Fenris's head snapped up. "Where's Hawke?" he shouted. "I know you have him, Cullen!"

Cullen sighed. So much for keeping that particular piece of information quiet. He waved once and went to let them inside.

Fenris marched through almost before Cullen had cleared the sally port. Isabela, however, took her time, sliding past with a wink and the comment, "Don't mind him, _I'm_ certainly happy to see you."

"Where's Hawke?" Fenris demanded again. He was cutting a straight path to the Great Hall, where his plan was no doubt to stand in the middle of the floor and loudly ask for Kirkwall's Champion until someone produced him.

"If you would just _keep your voice down_ —" Cullen said.

"It's no use," said Isabela. "He was like that the whole way here, too. All 'Hawke this' and 'Hawke that' and 'may the Blight take Hawke.'" She broke into a trot to keep up with Cullen. "Hopeless, really."

"I would certainly like to know how you located us," Cullen said. "Mother of—Fenris! Stop!" He was increasingly aware of the likelihood of the Inquisitor becoming involved, which would only complicate the issue; the last thing he needed was her standing there smirking at him as he stammered out an explanation—never mind that he'd caught her stuttering at least thrice in his presence, although nobody would ever believe so.

Of course, at that moment the door to the tavern opened and Hawke and Varric emerged, laughing uproariously, which was when Cullen realized the situation was already completely out of his control.

"Oh _shit,"_ Varric said, and at the sound of his voice Fenris whirled about. 

Hawke's customary gleeful expression dropped away from his face faster than Cullen had imagined possible, and into the sudden silence he said, "Fenris."

"You were in the _tavern?"_ Cullen said. "What part of 'stay in this room' did you not understand?"

"Yes, _Malcolm,"_ spat Fenris, who was beginning to glow. "What part of 'stay put' gives you trouble?"

Hawke's eyes narrowed. "You used the _you-know-what_ to track me."

"You abandoned me," Fenris said. "In the middle of the night. In _Antiva_. And you expect I wouldn't use the—the _you-know-what_ to find you?"

"That was supposed to be used in case I turned into an abomination!" Hawke said, indignant.

"And you don't consider ABANDONING ME IN ANTIVA an ABOMINATION?" Fenris said. He was lit up like a torch now, and they were starting to attract attention. Cullen glared hard at the loose group of recruits that were starting to wander over, and they spun about immediately and started in the opposite direction. Good lads.

"I'm not talking about this here," Hawke snapped. He stormed off in the direction of the training grounds, although fifteen steps into his exalted march he appeared to realize he'd intended to go in the opposite direction and had to turn around. When he passed Fenris, the elf stuck a foot out to try to trip him, forcing Hawke to do an awkward sideways hop that completely ruined what was left of his dramatic exit.

"Do you know," Isabela said as they watched the pair retreat, "I'm really disappointed that nobody has thought to compliment my hat." She turned and walked into the tavern. Varric followed. Cullen thought about tracking down Hawke for the better part of a minute before he decided there was no use swimming against the current. He pinched the bridge of his nose, sighed, and went into the tavern, too.

Dorian was already holding down a spot at the bar, and Cullen took a seat beside him. The barkeep set a flagon of watery beer in front of him—of course he did; Cullen had never been able to get the dwarf to serve him anything else, although beside him Dorian was drinking a thick, dark liquor out of a crystal goblet. Ah, well. If tonight was a night for being miserable and put-upon, he might as well be miserable and put-upon and drunk on Fereldan piss.

Isabela came up on his other side, winked at the barkeep, and was promptly given a rich-looking stout with a layer of foam on top, Maker damn her.

"My dear woman," Dorian said, leaning across Cullen, "that is a truly magnificent hat."

Isabela reached up to touch the feather sticking at a jaunty angle from the crown. "Ooh, I like you," she said. "Admiral Isabela, pleasure to meet you."

"Dorian Pavus—and the pleasure is all mine," said Dorian. He was _twinkling_ at her. "I take it you know our Commander here?"

Cullen groaned. "Dorian—"

"We fought abominations together in Kirkwall!" said Isabela.

"You know," Cullen said, "my life was already quite complicated enough without half of Kirkwall turning up on my doorstep."

Varric, returned from wherever he'd vanished to, hopped up on the stool on Isabela's other side. "Don't blame me," she said. "You know how Hawke and Fenris are—they both get grumpy if they don't have their weekly spat."

"Speaking of," Varric added, "our Tevinter friend here might want to watch his step now that Broody's around."

"This is the Champion's consort, I take it?" Dorian looked fascinated, which showed how little he knew. "He doesn't like the Imperium?"

"He was a slave," Isabela said.

"His former owner was a magister," said Varric.

"Who tortured him," Isabela concluded.

"Ah," Dorian said. "I see."

Cullen swore. Everyone turned to stare at him; he realized he wasn't usually quite so vehement outside of his own head and turned pink.

"Problem, Commander?" said Dorian.

Cullen cleared his throat. "Fenris. That is to say, Skyhold harbors not only a mage from Tevinter but a number of apostates, an elf who freely consorts with spirits, and _Sera."_

"Well, I'm not saying he won't _want_ to fight everyone," Isabela said, "but he does have some self-restraint. I'd be more worried that he and Hawke have disappeared, if I were you."

"I'm off-duty. Let someone else deal with it," Cullen said, perhaps a little too loudly. His beer was now empty, although it was quickly refilled.

"That's the spirit," said Varric. "Ruffles can handle any problem that comes up. Or the Inquisitor, I think it's her turn."

Isabela leaned forward. "Is she really as terrifying as everyone says?"

"No," said Dorian.

"Yes," said Cullen, at the same instant.

"How polarizing," Isabela said. "Come on, now, what's she really like?"

The word _dashing_ drifted through Cullen's mind, immediately followed by the word _complicated._

"She has grit," Varric said. "And she's a fine shot, although don't tell her I said so. Never seen one of her arrows miss her mark. If I didn't know better, I'd call it witchcraft." At Isabela's querying expression, he added, "She isn't all that fond of mages."

"I thought the Inquisition had allied itself with Grand Enchanter Fiona and her rebels, though?" 

"Yeah, that's where it gets tricky," said Varric. "The Inquisitor may not like mages, but she hates seeing anyone locked up."

"Accurate, polarizing, and complex," Isabela said. "Interesting. Anything else?"

Cullen thought about contributing a remark on the Inquisitor's hair, which was long and thick and looked as though it would be very nice to touch, but then decided it wasn't appropriate for him to talk about the hair of a woman who had so recently turned him away. He was getting over it. Really.

His beer was empty again. How odd.

And then from behind him someone said, "Talking about me?"

Cullen turned around. He couldn't help it; she really did look dashing, in her red overcoat and red broad-brimmed hat. Her nose was crooked where it had once been broken, but somehow that only added to the overall effect.

"Lady Inquisitor!" said Dorian.

"Dorian," said the Inquisitor. "Varric." A pause. "Commander." She turned to Isabela. "And I don't believe we've met, Madam?"

"Admiral Isabela," Isabela said, and offered her hand. The Inquisitor took it by the fingertips and, with her other arm tucked behind her coat, bowed low and brushed a kiss to Isabela's knuckles.

"A pleasure, Admiral," the Inquisitor said.

Isabela _giggled._

It wasn't until that moment that Cullen noticed the Inquisitor had both Hawke and Fenris with her. Hawke took the seat beside Varric, while Fenris sat at the very extreme other end, leaving an empty stool for the Inquisitor between himself and Dorian.

"Hawke, the Inquisitor here is from Ostwick," Varric said.

"A Marcher!" cried Hawke, as though the Free Marches hadn't chewed him up and spit him out still bleeding. Personally, Cullen wouldn't mind if Kirkwall burned to the ground and took the rest of the Marches with it. "How wonderful. I feel much better about the whole situation knowing that."

"You're Ferelden," Isabela reminded him.

"Only half!" said Hawke, visibly stung.

"Don't you have a mabari?" Cullen said, and then immediately regretted involving himself in the whole farce. The Inquisitor slanted him a sideways look over the glass of brandy she was nursing, and he looked away.

"Oh, he's dead," said Hawke. "Sacrificed at midwinter, that sort of thing. I thought I should really commit to the Marcher way of life, which means no smelly dogs."

There was a moment of resounding horror, and then Fenris said, "The dog is with Carver."

"I thought you weren't talking to me," called Hawke.

"Fuck you, Hawke," Fenris called back.

"And what about you, Lady Trevelyan?" Isabela, completely undeterred, said, and batted her eyelashes."Is it Ostwick or nothing?"

"Actually, Ostwick's a terrible place," the Inquisitor said, but then she winked and added, "Almost as bad as Ferelden."

A dark chuckle rolled up from the far end of the bar.

"Did that sting, Hawke?" Fenris said.

 _"You_ -aren't- _talk-ing_ -to- _me!"_ said Hawke in a sing-song.

"Well, well," said the Inquisitor. Cullen groaned. However lovely her hair might be, she did have a distressing inability to resist 'stirring the pot,' as the saying went. "Domestic strife?"

"Not a problem you're familiar with?" said Fenris. "Good for you. Keep it that way."

"I'm sitting right here!" said Hawke. By the fire, the bard started playing a lively jig; it gave Cullen a headache.

"I believe Lady Trevelyan has enough problems to deal with," Dorian said. "There was that business with Corypheus, the time travel, the White Divine's death…"

"My hair's been very strange lately," contributed Hawke. "I don't feel it's as artfully rakish as it once was. It looks flat. Not terribly flattering, flat hair."

"The anchor," Dorian added. "We mustn't forget the anchor."

"It almost makes you a mage, that," said Hawke, who clearly had no more a problem with magic than he did with Kirkwall.

Cullen braced himself. Three...two…

"I am _not_ a mage," the Inquisitor said sharply.

Hawke squinted. "An Andrastan? Sorry, Inquisitor, didn't realize you were so devout." A beat. "Not that there's anything wrong with that! Well, not much wrong, but I find that fanaticism is never a positive trait. Do you know, I once met a merchant who insisted that the only olives worth eating were Antivan olives? Now, I like a good olive as much as the next man, but even I can admit that olives from other regions can make a decent meal when paired with the proper—"

"Nor do I believe in the Maker," the Inquisitor interrupted. She shoved away from the bar. "I apologize, gentlemen, Admiral Isabela. I have some pressing business that must be attended to. Another round on me, perhaps?" She waved at the barkeep, who promptly began pulling his thickest, darkest beer, the beer that Cullen had never even been close enough to _smell._

"How odd," said Isabela, after the Inquisitor had taken her leave.

"Yeah, not really," said Varric. "She's touchy, that one. Doesn't like the Chantry any more than the Circle."

"It's a wonder we make any alliances at all," Dorian agreed. "Now that I think on it, I believe our dear Inquisitor has accidentally sabotaged more than one of Lady Josephine's arrangements because of her vehement insistence that she is _not_ the Herald of Andraste."

"My hair," said Hawke. "Did I mention it? It looks terrible."

The Inquisitor had barely touched her brandy. Cullen looked mournfully at the stout that was being served to his compatriots and then back at the watery beer he had been handed. He had a headache, although at this point it was difficult to tell if that was lyrium withdrawal, Hawke's incredibly grating presence, or the alcohol. Maybe the bard—must she really make every song sound like a funeral dirge? Even that jig sounded as though it should be played to a crowd of mourners.

"She's a younger sister, isn't she," said Isabela. Her expression was starting to turn predatory. "There's this air about her, all repressed yearning...ooh," she said, and shuddered. "It's remarkably compelling. I do wonder about the attitude, though."

"She's probably a secret mage," said Hawke. "Perhaps I could try some wax? No, I think that would only remove volume. Varric, your hair is looking nice these days, any tips you'd like to share?"

"A secret...what are you even talking about?" said Dorian. "A secret mage. How can one be a 'secret' mage?"

Hawke shrugged. "You'd have to ask someone who actually is a secret mage. _I_ tried being one for a number of years and it did me no favors, let me tell you. Of course, rather hard to be a secret mage when you carry a staff everywhere. In retrospect, Carver might have been right to claim that I didn't try terribly hard."

"The point is that I wouldn't go there, Rivaini," Varric said. "Besides, you might make Curly here cry, and nobody wants to see that."

"You're sure?" said Isabela. "Nobility that manages to be both roguish _and_ uptight is hard to come by. I had this prince once…"

"Oh, Andraste's tits!" Varric swore. "I can't listen to this. Tell Hawke—tell anyone but _me."_

"You normally like hearing about my exploits," Isabela said. "You've changed, Varric." She was pouting. "What happened to all that friend fiction we used to write together? I suppose you're too big for it now, famous author like you."

"Wait," said Cullen, far too late for it to be of any use. "Wait a moment. I would not cry. Why am I crying in this scenario?"

Everyone ignored him except for Dorian, who clapped him companionably on the back. "I wouldn't worry about it," said Dorian. "Unless you've decided to give men a try?"

Cullen sagged. "No," he said, approximately as mournful as the music. "Still women, I'm afraid."

"Pity," said Dorian, and then he brightened. "Oh look, there's the Bull! There's a very good chance I'm drunk enough to make another attempt at improving relations between Par Vollen and Tevinter. Diplomacy has to start somewhere, and as I always say, why not in the bedroom?" He picked up his stout and wandered toward the corner where the Iron Bull was drinking with the Chargers; Cullen watched the stout leave with no little regret.

"I like him," Isabela announced.

"I don't," said Fenris, somewhat bitterly. For once, Cullen was inclined to side with Isabela.

"I'm going to find a comb," said Hawke. "Would anyone like this brandy the Inquisitor left? No? Excellent." He took it with him as he left; Cullen watched the brandy leave with no little regret.

He had to piss. Such were the consequences of three—four—many, perhaps too many, Ferelden beers.

"I have to go," Cullen said, with what he hoped was great dignity.

"You okay there, Curly?" said Varric.

"He's fine, look at him," Isabela cut in. "Oh, cut it out, Varric, don't look at me like that—I mean, he _is_ fine, there's...mmm, certainly no denying that, but he's also steady enough on his feet to make his way back to his rooms."

"Thank you," said Cullen, probably.

-

After he emptied his bladder, he felt much better, although still not easy enough to sleep. There was Hawke, of course; but more than that he simply felt restless, and also as though he should probably be on hand just in case one of Hawke's friends decided to blow up the chapel. Better safe than sorry in this case.

He was walking the ramparts when he ran into Fenris, who was apparently doing the same thing from the opposite direction. "Cullen," said the elf.

"Fenris," said Cullen. 

There was a briefly awkward silence during which nobody much knew what to say.

"Pleasant night," Fenris finally commented.

"Yes, it...it is," Cullen agreed. "Good weather lately."

"A little cold at this elevation," said Fenris.

"Yes," said Cullen.

There was another briefly awkward silence.

"Please don't blow up the chapel," Cullen said.

"I make no promises for Hawke," Fenris warned him. He'd abandoned the broadsword for a pair of falchions, one strapped at either hip, and Cullen noted it had clearly been good for his posture. Otherwise he looked much the same as he had all those long years in Kirkwall, before the sky had started to fall.

Cullen huffed, not without amusement. "I wouldn't put that on you," he said; the moon was high and full enough that he could make out Fenris's answering smirk.

"The burdens we bear," Fenris said. "Hm. This is a good location. Well fortified, easily defensible."

"We're doing our best, although I'm afraid our forces aren't as strong as they once were." Cullen crossed his arms and shifted his weight. Good grace, he had gone through a lot of that beer, hadn't he?

"Yes," said Fenris. "I would imagine not." He reached a hand over his shoulder and then withdrew it; Cullen recognized it as the nervous gesture of a man who had only recently ceased to carry a greatsword.

There was a briefly awkward silence.

"I should—" Cullen started.

"Tell your—" said Fenris, at the same time.

They both coughed. The awkwardness seemed an inevitable consequence of killing abominations together and then falling out of contact for several years.

"Your Inquisitor," Fenris said, and then stopped.

Oh no, not more of this. Somehow Cullen doubted Fenris wanted to say something complimentary about her hat, or her hair, or the particular way she said the word 'again.' He was beginning to sense that not only was the 'moving past the Inquisitor' plan failing miserably but that he was also...well. _Infatuated._ The other day he'd had a fantasy about the two of them playing chess that had involved neither nudity nor overt flirtation, although that might have been because he missed her as a chess partner—Dorian was a good player, but he took the game somewhat less seriously than Cullen did, while the Inquisitor was positively cutthroat.

Right. Moving along. "What about her?" said Cullen.

"She should be careful making statements like the one she made tonight." Fenris, frustrated, touched his knuckles to his temple and then turned away, and Cullen realized he didn't look the same as he once had at all; Kirkwall had changed them both, drawn them thin, spun them until they were worn imitations, merely memories who walked around in the flesh of who they had once been.

He felt that way sometimes, although it might have been the addiction. Hard to tell. Or the beer—there was always the beer.

"I have…" Fenris said slowly. "I have...known men who strove with gods and spirits, and their path is never an easy one. If she does not believe in the Maker, tell her to keep it to herself; she does not know the consequences of denying Him."

Cullen sighed. "I hope what you say is not true," he said, "but yes, I'll tell her."

"Good," said Fenris. "Excuse me." He set his left hand on the inner wall and his right hand on the pommel of a falchion, and then followed the wall past Cullen until he descended to the bailey. 

A voice floated up from below: "There you are." Hawke. "Still angry at me?"

"Am I not always angry at you?" said Fenris, but there was warmth threaded through the hard edge of his tone. "I trust I've proven that your disappearing act won't work twice."

A pause, and then Hawke, more serious than Cullen had heard him save two occasions only, said, "Fenris. All I want—all I have ever wanted—is to protect my family."

"...Is that what you're doing now?" said Fenris. "Protecting my genitals?"

"I would like to point out," said Hawke, in a magnificently put-upon tone, "that your hand—nay, _hands_ —are also currently down my pants."

"Perhaps a room," Fenris suggested. "With a door."

"Oh, well, if you're going to be _difficult,"_ said Hawke, and Fenris laughed in his deep voice; Cullen had never heard him laugh like that before. It was privilege apparently reserved for Hawke and Hawke alone. He heard them talking softly as they walked through the bailey and back to Hawke's quarters, although there was one point when their voices crested in sharp argument before falling back into quiet.

Cullen stood on the battlements long after they had left, thinking about everything and nothing and then, ultimately, whether it would be possible to sneak into the tavern and steal some of the good beer without the barkeep noticing.

And then someone said, "He's wrong, you realize."

Cullen started, and his hand fell to his sword before he recognized the voice as the Inquisitor's. She was hidden by the crenelations; she sat on the very precipice, her feet hanging over a drop that was half a league straight down. Her head was tipped back as she looked at the sky—at the precise spot where the Breach had been, Cullen realized. He suddenly wanted very much to bring her away from the edge.

"I have been striving with gods my entire life," she said, a little distantly. "I know the consequences well."

"You suffer them even now," Cullen said. Her hat was gone. Was that cause for worry? It wouldn't do to have the whole Inquisition fall apart simply because the Inquisitor was missing her favorite hat. Also, upon reflection, perhaps the Inquisitor's hat was less pressing than other concerns—for instance, being alone with the Inquisitor for the first time since she—since they—

He was still astonished and disappointed that he had misread her so badly; disappointed in himself, to be precise, and Cullen was always precise with his contrition.

"Yes," said the Inquisitor, and then she spun into a half crouch. "Commander! I...I was lost in my thoughts."

"Of course, Inquisitor," Cullen said. Maybe if he backed up, she'd come down from up there. Watching her whirl about like that had almost given him heart trouble; perhaps it would be possible to install some kind of safety net if she continued to insist on hanging on the side of the keep. He took a step back. Sort of like coaxing a recalcitrant horse, he thought, and retreated another step.

"I just want to make it very clear," said the Inquisitor.

"Yes, Inquisitor?" said Cullen.

"I want to make it very clear," said the Inquisitor. "I am _not_ a mage."

"I...don't believe anyone thinks you are, Inquisitor," Cullen said.

"Good. Not a mage. It's very important," said the Inquisitor, and then—thank the Maker—she slid down to the walk. Cullen would be happy to reaffirm her lack of magical ability twelve times a day simply to keep her feet on the ground.

"Not a mage, Inquisitor," he said.

"Right," said the Inquisitor. "Ah. There was something I wanted to ask you—"

From the distance, there was a very small explosion.

"Oh Maker _no_ ," said Cullen.


End file.
